


realism and romance

by muselives



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-07
Updated: 2014-02-07
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:57:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/muselives/pseuds/muselives
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reality and romance can find some compromise after all. [Porn Battle XV, Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Melinda May/Phil Coulson]</p>
            </blockquote>





	realism and romance

**Author's Note:**

> Posted for Porn Battle [here](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/65746.html?thread=9111250#cmt9111250). Spoilers through the first season. Unbetaed.

He's the romantic, she's the realist. That would be the way people would package this partnership if either of them could really be so readily defined. The truth is there's plenty of romance underneath May's composed exterior and freedom of expression doesn't completely override his sense of responsibility, no matter how deep his feelings run. 

She has Grant and he has his cellist-- again, as if anything were so simple. Maybe there's no having, only holding in this life they've chosen. The price of secrets they've kept keeps rising until a pound of flesh seems like a bargain compared to the sum already owed.

There's death and change and grieving along the way. She decides things with Grant are a problem so she ends it, just as she said she would. He knows, he's always known, there's no going back to Seattle, no going back to the man he was before.

So late one night when the kids are out on assignment, he finds her sitting on the couch, reading, the fingers of her free hand working idly over stiff muscles in her neck. They have just enough focus that he can tell what spot is bothering her, that it must have been bothering her for some time now.

"Here," he says before he can think the better of it, hand already reaching out.

At least he has the sense (or maybe just instinct) to say something before he touches her like that, coming at her from a blind spot, putting pressure somewhere most would consider a vulnerable point. May could break him six ways to Sunday and only half that come to mind even require the use of her hands.

It doesn't even seem to cross her mind to try. She bows her head forward, shifting just enough to give him better access to her neck and shoulders without looking up from her page.

He works out the knot in her neck and moves on instinctively to her shoulders. She leans back enough to work with the pressure of his touch, resting and relaxing even as she lends her weight to his hands. He hardly even notices when her book falls slowly to her lap and she leans her head back, closing her eyes. They go back, way back, him and May, but this feels like a first for them. Quiet, intimate, not words he would have hesitated to use before but always casual, no subtext, no inherent charge.

It's that soft little _mmm_ that pulls him out of his thoughts, out of his routine, and he notices her chewing on her lower lip. _Sensual_ , that's the word that comes to mind and the observation is not objective at all. Though her eyes are closed, her expression seems open, more open and at ease than she's been in years.

That's when she looks up at him, realizing he's gone still, and even with his hands on her shoulders, he doesn't notice her tense. "Phil?" she speaks softly, her voice warm with friendship and empathy and concern, the still beating heart of the woman he once knew.

"You're beautiful." The words sound distant at first, like they've been said by someone else, but then they seem to be clawing their way back to him as soon as they're heard. A smile, sheepish and old-fashioned, touches his features as he adds, "I don't think I've ever told you that before."

She considers him for a moment before answering, "Not like this you haven't."

That's when he lays his hands on the back of the couch and no sooner do they leave her then she's moving, leaving her book behind as she stands. They don't fidget as they stand there, neither one uncomfortable with the furniture between them or this mutual probing gaze.

"Melinda, I--"

Whatever he has to say is cut off by her hands shooting out to grab his jacket. Even as she pulls him over, his hands are holding steady, helping him navigate the couch. He means to land on his feet and he almost does but her forward momentum creates a not wholly unpleasant tangle of limbs and the next thing he knows, he's crashing onto her on top of the couch.

He feels a bit like he's fifteen again, all the awkwardness and the energy and the newness of kissing someone he's known without knowing he wanted all along. It takes them a minute to line up their bodies, to match their mouths, but once they do, it's more like twenty-five, still new and full of vigor but tempered with a little experience this time.

His hand is pushing up her shirt when she moves to stop him, stilling him gently as she informs him, "Not on the couch."

He smiles, a generous flash and knowing enough to earn a passingly reproachful look from May. It's not the public space or suddenly feeling their age that has them on the move, he's sure. It's the same reason she stops well short of the bed to wrap him in her arms for a long, unhurried kiss. Reality and romance can find some compromise after all.

He undresses her slowly, definitely a first, and she takes just as much time with him. Their clothes still end up on the floor but there's a certain neatness to them, not a total frantic haste. Underwear stays on until well after they've made it on to the bed. There's enough skin and scars to discover without removing them just yet.

She brushes the scar on his chest with her fingertips but unlike the last time, this time she follows it up with a kiss. He returns the favor several times over, finding old stories and discovering ones that are at least new to him. All the while she runs her fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp with the occasional light pull when his mouth wanders into more sensitive spots.

He still pauses once his hand finally brushes along her bra to ask, "Are you sure?"

"Yes," she answers, this time with her own generous smile. Her fingers trail lower to snap at the elastic waistband of his boxer briefs. "Not exactly vintage."

"I'm a multifaceted man."

That's when she laughs, not loud or deep but more than she's done in years. It makes him smile which makes her smile back and they're in danger of just looping like that until she pulls him down for another kiss. Her hands join his hands to help do away with her bra but distractions and more explorations delay that final stage just a little more.

She gasps when he swaps his fingers for his mouth, hums approvingly as he maps the swell of each breast. He doesn't expect the pinch on the ass that follows teasing one of her nipples to a hardened point but surprises will keep them young, right?

But he doesn't feel young, no more than he feels old, no more than he's aware of himself being anything other than he is in this moment, right here with her. For once, the questions and the answers are as far from his mind as possible as she shimmies out of her underwear after helping him tackle his, leaving them both completely bare.

And so the exploration starts anew, the lamp on the nightstand left on, not too soft but not too bright. He groans and calls her name as his cock hardens in her capable hands, finally giving up his mission somewhere around her left elbow to dish back some of the same.

She only lets him take her so far on his fingers before they come together, strong but slow. It's as close as he's been to making love in his life, knowing his partner the way he knows her, knowing that she knows him too. It's unhurried and it's savored and each kiss is just as fantastic as her deliberate control of each muscle clenching down around him with each thrust. He wants it to last forever and with how slowly it builds between them, it almost seems that it will.

Release finally comes of course though its more like gliding than falling, just a little drop when your feet leave the ground and the air moves to catch you and hold you up. They sync almost perfectly and while they've worked up a sweat, neither seems to mind the mess. She wraps around him for a prolonged embrace and they just hold each other in the moments after until they finally pull apart.

After cleaning up and settling in again with some minimums for clothes, he notices that she found another book while he was tidying up the room.

She notices his noticing and gives him a smile as she sets it aside. "Do you always straighten up after?" Underneath the amusement, there's real curiosity there.

"Sometimes. Especially when tomorrow might be rough." Because with four incoming agents on a mission, who knows how quickly they'll need to get dressed?

Bringing up the team should probably be a buzzkill but she just nods before scooting down to claim her side of the bed. The team is their reality and reality dictates that by tomorrow at the latest, they'll be rejoining them on the bus.

But for now, he thinks as he lays down beside her, finally turning off the light, they've earned the right to a good night's sleep.


End file.
